Vineta, the Phantom City

The physician, who soon arrived and saw the state of the wounded man, looked grave and anxious. The wound in the head, evidently caused by a blow from the horse's hoof, seemed a serious one, while the tutor's frail constitution and the great loss of blood rendered his case very critical. The sufferer for a long time hovered between life and death. Herr Witold, whose own health like that of his ward was perfect, and who had never known what pain and illness really were, after these mournful days were over, often declared that he would not pass through them again for all the world. To-day, for the first time, the old gentleman's face assumed its usual placid and unconcerned expression, as he sat down by the sick man's bed.

"The worst is over," he said; "and now, Doctor Fabian, have the goodness to set Waldemar's head right again. I have not the slightest influence over him, but you can do anything you like with him, so bring the lad back to reason, or this unfortunate affair will prove his ruin."

Waldemar stood at a window pressing his forehead against the panes, and gazing vacantly out into the yard. Doctor Fabian, who still wore a broad white bandage around his head, looked pale and exhausted. He, however, sat upright, supported by pillows, and although his voice was weak, it had no tremor of illness as he asked,–

"What would you have Waldemar do?"

"I want him to be rational," said Herr Witold, emphatically, "and to thank God that this affair has turned out no worse, instead of going about silent and downcast as if he had a murder on his conscience. I suffered enough, heaven knows, during those first few days when your life hung by a thread; but now that the physician has pronounced you out of danger, I again breathe freely. By-gones are by-gones, and I cannot endure to have my boy go around with such a face, never speaking a word for hours at a time."

"I have often enough assured Waldemar that I alone am to blame for the accident. His attention was entirely absorbed in managing the horse, and he could not see that I was standing near. I was so imprudent as to seize Norman by the bridle, and he dragged me down."

"Did you take Norman by the bit–you who never venture within ten paces of any horse?" exclaimed Herr Witold, in surprise. "What in the world possessed you to do such a foolhardy thing?"

Fabian glanced over at his pupil, and replied, mildly, "I was fearful of an accident."

"Which would doubtless have occurred," added the old gentleman. "Waldemar must have been out of his senses to think of leaping the ditch at nightfall, and with a horse half dead from fatigue. I have always told him that some accident would happen to him for being so venturesome. He has now learned a lesson, but he lays it too much at heart. Doctor, give him a good talking to, and persuade him to be reasonable."

The guardian then rose and left the room. Teacher and pupil remained for some moments silent, and then Fabian said,–

"Waldemar, did you hear my instructions?"

The young man, who until now had stood at the window silent and indifferent, as if the conversation in no way concerned him, turned and approached the bed. He appeared the same as usual, except that he was somewhat pale; at the first glance one felt that Witold's solicitude was excessive, but closer scrutiny revealed a great change. The face had assumed an expression of indifference and rigidity which excluded the play of any other emotion. Perhaps this was only a mask with which Waldemar sought to hide from the world a deeply wounded sensibility. The voice no longer had its usually powerful ringing tone; it was hollow and expressionless, as he replied,–

"Do not heed my uncle's words; nothing is the matter with me."

Doctor Fabian grasped his pupil's right hand in both of his, the young man offering no resistance. "Herr Witold thinks you are still censuring yourself for the accident which occurred to me. This, you must know, is wholly unnecessary, now that all danger is past. I fear that the cause of your sadness lies in quite another direction."

Waldemar's hands trembled; he turned his face away.

"Hitherto I have not ventured to allude to this subject," Fabian went on, hesitatingly. "I see that it still pains you; shall I keep silent?"

Waldemar sighed deeply. "No," he answered; "say what you please; but first let me thank you for not telling my uncle. He has tortured me nearly to death with his questions, but I could not answer them. My mood that evening nearly cost you your life. I can not and will not deny what you already know."

"I know nothing; I only have my conjectures in regard to the scene I witnessed. For heaven's sake, Waldemar, what happened?"

"A childish folly, nothing more," Waldemar replied, with bitter irony; "a mere stupid whim not worth noticing,–at least so my mother wrote me day before yesterday. But I was in earnest, so terribly in earnest that nothing the future has in store for me can atone for my disappointment."

"Do you love the Countess Morynski?" asked Doctor Fabian, timidly.

"I have loved her–but that love is a thing of the past. She did her best to fascinate me; I now know that she was only playing a heartless game. The wound was deep, but it will heal. I shall conquer this weakness. I shall learn to forget and despise the girl who trifled with the holiest sentiment of my heart. But do me this favor: never mention the matter to my uncle, never speak of it again to me. I cannot talk about it, not even with you. Leave me to fight out the battle alone, and it will end all the sooner."

His quivering lips betrayed the anguish he suffered from any probing of the wound that was still so recent. Fabian saw that he must desist.

"I will obey your wish and be silent," he said. "You shall never hear an allusion to this subject from my lips in future."

"In future!" echoed Waldemar; "and will you then remain with me? I took it for granted that you would leave us immediately upon your recovery. I would like to have you stay, but I cannot ask it when I have made so poor a return for your kindness, and so nearly caused your death."

Doctor Fabian again grasped his pupil's hand. "I know that you have suffered far more than I," he said; "and one good thing has resulted from my illness. It has proved–you will pardon me for saying it–that you really have a heart."

Waldemar did not seem to hear the words, he was lost in thought. At length he said, "Why did you save my life at the risk of your own? I thought no one cared for me."

"No one? Not even your foster-father?"

"Ah, yes! Uncle Witold, perhaps–but I thought him the only one."

"I have proved to you that he is not the only one," replied the tutor, gravely.

"I deserved this of you least of all," said Waldemar. "But I have learned a severe lesson, so severe that I shall not forget it as long as I live. When I brought you home bleeding on that ill-fated night, when the doctor gave you up for lost, I knew how a murderer feels. If you are really willing to remain with me, you shall not regret it. I have sworn by your couch of pain to overcome that ungovernable fury which has all my life made me deaf to reason, blind to my own good and the good of others. You will have no further cause to complain of me."

"I wish you would promise me this with another look and tone," said Doctor Fabian. "I have no idea of leaving you, but in our future intercourse I would rather contend with your old impetuous nature, than endure this forced, hopeless resignation. Your manner does not please me."

Waldemar rose with a quick, repellent movement, as if to avoid further scrutiny. "I wish you would make your conversation less personal," he said; "the room is close, shall I raise the window?"

The doctor sighed, feeling that he could not win his pupil's confidence. But all further conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Herr Witold.

"Waldemar," he said, "Prince Zulieski is downstairs, and wishes to see you."

"Leo?" asked Waldemar, in astonishment.

"Yes, Leo. Go down at once, and I will remain with Doctor Fabian."

Waldemar left the room, and Herr Witold took his place at the bedside.

"The Zulieskis are in a great hurry to get Waldemar back again," he said. "Three days ago a letter came from her Highness the princess-mother. I am very sure that Waldemar has not answered it; the mother could not induce him to leave your side, and now comes the brother in person; and a very handsome lad the young Polish stripling is! But he is too much like his mother to suit my taste. Speaking of the princess and her son reminds me that I have not yet asked about your discoveries at C–. In my anxiety for you, I entirely forgot the fact of my sending you there on a sort of voyage of discovery."

Doctor Fabian cast down his eyes, and in his embarrassment pulled nervously at the coverlet. "Unfortunately, I have nothing to communicate, Herr Witold," he said; "my visit at C– was very short, and I told you before I went that I had no skill as a diplomatist."

"Then you learned nothing? That is unfortunate. But how is it with Waldemar? Have you given him a good talking to?"

"He has promised me that he will endeavor to forget the past."

"God be praised! I knew that you could do anything with him you liked. We have both done the lad wrong in thinking he had no feeling. I had no idea he would lay the affair so to heart."

"Neither had I," said the doctor, with a sigh whose import Herr Witold did not understand.

Waldemar found his brother awaiting him. The young prince, who upon his arrival had been greatly surprised at sight of the old, low-roofed house and dilapidated outbuildings of Altenhof, was still more astonished at the plainness and bareness of the room into which he was shown. He had all his life been accustomed to lofty and elegant apartments, and could not understand why his brother, while possessed of such vast wealth, could be content to live in so humble a manner. The parlor of that hired villa at C–, which seemed so inferior to himself and his mother, was luxurious in comparison with the reception-room at Altenhof.

He was musing over these strange discrepancies of fortune, and asking himself why luxurious tastes were given to him without means to gratify them, while his brother, who was possessed of unbounded wealth, cared little for those advantages wealth offers, when Waldemar entered the room. Leo advanced to meet him, and said hastily, as if he would discharge an unpleasant duty as quickly as possible,–

"You are surprised at my coming; but as you have neither visited us nor answered my mother's letter, no alternative remained but for me to come to you."

It was easy to see that the young man did not make the visit of his own accord. His greeting and manner were evidently forced; he seemed to feel in duty bound to offer his hand, but failed in the attempt to do so.

Waldemar did not or would not notice his embarrassment. "Do you come at your mother's bidding?" he asked.

Leo flushed deeply at the thought of his aversion to an interview, which his mother had secured only by the exercise of her whole maternal authority.

"I do," he finally replied.